


april is the cruelest month

by storytellingape



Category: Girls (TV), Peter Rabbit (2018), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Celebrity Crush, Colin Firth References, Kylux Adjacent Month 2020, Kylux Adjacent Ship, M/M, Notting Hill References, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23697379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storytellingape/pseuds/storytellingape
Summary: In a little house in a corner street in a small town called Windermere, there lived a fussy toyshop owner named Thomas McGregor.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Thomas McGregor/Adam Sackler
Comments: 16
Kudos: 177
Collections: Into the Adjacentverse: Kylux Adjacents Month 2020





	april is the cruelest month

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thomas Day! Last year for the Kylux Adjacent Month I binned a Notting Hill AU! This is my second attempt. Sort of.
> 
> [Notting Hill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t5cn4BoYSEEI) is a 1999 Richard Curtis Film starring Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts. It's soppy but I love it. This contains a minor spoiler for PR2 that I've taken from the novelisation of the movie. As usual thank you to [@StaticRaining](https://twitter.com/StaticRaining) for making this utter drivel readable lol. The fic takes place in October but the title is both in reference to April being Thomas' month (he has a day in the KA Calendar lol) and _The Waste Land_ by TS Eliot.

* * *

Eight months after he had resigned from Harrods, Thomas was no longer in the habit of venturing out of Windermere. It was to keep himself from ever missing the wonders of London where he spent most of his adult life. His childhood was spent elsewhere, in a little town in Antwerp in a farm populated by two goats and his grandmum’s temperamental tabby cat. Very few people knew this about him, certainly not acquaintances, and so it took everybody by surprise when Thomas McGregor, formerly of Harrods employ, took countryside living in stride.

There had been little hiccups here and there—there were rocks and animal bones in his uncle’s garden and a leak in the roof of his greenhouse—but Thomas had always been hardy and handy and these were little things that could be easily fixed given the right amount of time and resources. With all of his uncle’s assets transferred to his name and nothing in the way of gainful employment, he had both in spades and so he had no trouble at all mending the roof or patching up holes in the eaves, or scrubbing out tile grout. He took the skeletons out of the closet—his uncle had been a fan of taxidermy and collected the skeletons of birds—, alphabetized all the books in his study, laundered and replaced the curtains, mopped the floors, retiled the kitchen, and finally after weeks of hemming and hawing installed a flat screen television in his bedroom.

It seemed as if there was a never ending list of things to do. Housework kept him busy, but Thomas didn’t mind it. It was a good project to keep him occupied. Productivity was the mark of the modern man after all, and if Thomas had accidentally developed an unseemly fondness for raising tomatoes, squeezing on the buds on occasion to foster a speedy growth, well no one was around to judge him for it.

The people of Windermere lived simple, uncomplicated lives and left him well alone. You could disappear here in Windermere; people would let you. But sometimes Thomas got lonely.

* * *

It was no secret that Thomas loved the theater. He had no aspirations to join an acting troupe but he found the stage more entertaining than film or television. There was something magical about being part of the audience, holding your breath as you watched a story unfold before your very eyes: he couldn’t help but be moved. It had been awhile since he had seen a play or watched a musical. It was one of the things he missed about London, besides his corner flat with the floor to ceiling windows, and the farmer’s market on Sundays, and the ever-long queues at the tills in Tesco. He used to buy tickets to whatever was playing on the weekend, arriving at the theater in his best suit with his hair slick with pomade. When the lights dimmed, his heart started to race and he would glance around to check if everybody was holding his breath as he was. There was nothing of that sort in Windermere; there wasn’t even a theater. People amused themselves by urinating into the public fountain, or with a night of heavy drinking at the pub. Thomas amused himself by taking up various hobbies: this month it was knitting.

Life was simple.For Thomas, who had once swanned the marble floors of the most luxurious department store in London, life was unbearably easy in its routines. The days spent drinking chamomile tea, thumbing through a dogeared copy of _Of Human Bondage_ while he waited for customers to arrive. The evenings cooking in his kitchen, humming a tune he’d picked up on the radio.

Months came and went in a similar fashion.

October was cool and crisp. The shelves of Thomas’ toyshop were decorated with bright autumnal colours redolent of the season, bunting and paper leaves and papier mâché animals fringing the shopfront. 

It was on this dreary October day that Thomas’ favourite actor walked in.

He was wearing a nondescript shirt and a pair of trendy jeans, his hands jammed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward. Thomas recognized him after several long blinks. It was Adam Sackler, from the bubblegum advert and Thomas’ favourite play _Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps._ The same man rumoured to have sold his sex tape for half a million pounds; up-and-coming Adam Sackler who journalists had described had a face like a Renaissance painting. He had the acting range of a spoon, but he was terribly handsome and dreamy, and in Thomas’ opinion, really _really_ fit. He hadn’t been in a lot of movies, but he was the star of the London theater scene despite being in possession of the most _atrocious_ British accent. 

Thomas watched him for a beat before swallowing and getting up from behind the counter. He had met a few celebrities before—a few of them shopped regularly at Harrods—but none of them interested him with their gaggle of bodyguards and harried PAs. None of them were Adam Sackler whom Thomas had once met backstage after a production of _One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy_ after he stood in the rain and the cold for hours just to catch a glimpse of him. Thomas didn’t keep up with celebrities but Adam Sackler had always been in the periphery, hovering like a speck in the fringes of his awareness like tabloid fodder. And now there he was in Thomas’ actual line of sight: his arms bulging out of the sleeves of his rough-hewn grey t-shirt and his hair a dark handsome mess like slippery ink, as he rubbed his jaw in thought and paced around the shop. He was almost Thomas’ height, a fact which Thomas found rather surprising. On stage and from several feet away, Adam had always seemed tall, a giant among men. Thomas was also not expecting him to smell a little bit like meat loaf. 

“May I help you, sir?” Thomas asked.

Adam was alone: no bodyguard or assistant hot on his heels because this stage in his career didn’t warrant them yet. He could pass off as anybody: butcher, baker, candlestick maker which made him a delight to watch onstage when he disappeared into his roles. He skimmed his fingers across the shelves that hugged the shop’s upper wall and housed Bea’s illustrated books, which supplemented most of Thomas’ income because he was bound to sell at least one copy each month. 

Adam stood there, humming, flicking his eyes from the shelf of books then back again to Thomas. He had the beginnings of a beard that struggled to thicken along his jawline but condensed on his chin and his upper lip. When he spoke, Thomas almost had a seizure because he’d forgotten for a moment that Adam was, in fact, an American. Onstage he spoke a variety of accents, all except his own. He didn’t speak like a Victorian chimneysweep, much to Thomas’ disappointment, but then again he wasn’t dressed like the Earl of Pembroke either. 

“Don’t mind me. I’m just browsing,” Adam said, shrugging. He shot Thomas a polite smile then carried own with his _browsing_ which was an activity heavily frowned upon in customer service. It meant people walked into shops without clear intent to buy, and it was then up to the personnel to persuade them to spend their coin, short of bursting into a song and dance number. 

“Anything in particular catch your eye?” Thomas asked because he couldn’t quite help himself. He had worked at Harrods for ten years; there were habits and reflexes that were difficult for him to cast aside, and which made him appear odd to others. So he was odd, but odd was the least terrible thing he’d been called in his life and only one of many.

Adam smiled, his eyes softening as he eyed Thomas from head to toe and then back again in silent appraisal. 

“I mean sure. Now that I think about it.” The way he said it made it clear to Thomas that he was talking about something else: maybe the wallpaper which was a cornflower blue and had little yellow pansies on them, which he had been meaning to change. Maybe this season’s merchandise which consisted solely of felt finger puppets and felt hats and felt dolls. Thomas had put a lot of thought into ordering them; October was the season of felt. It was comfortable, stylish, and even kept your ears warm. 

“How much for these books?” Adam said, pointing to the shelf.

“ _Books_ , as in plural?” Thomas asked. It wasn’t everyday people came in and bought in bulk. People didn’t have the same spending capacity in these parts like they did in the city; they were more concerned covering the staples day by day—bread, milk, eggs. Toys were for birthdays and Christmastime, a frivolous expense. This was precisely why Thomas was losing more money than he was making, month on month on month. It was only his uncle’s fortune that kept him fed and clothed. Years later and he was still living off of the charity of others. 

“Are you interested in the whole set?” Thomas couldn’t quite curb the enthusiastic hope that crept into his voice. “It’s an entire anthology. There’s even one where the rabbits go to space. Ridiculous if you ask me, but what do I know about children’s books. Apparently nothing, according to Bea. You’d think I didn’t spend a third of my life working at the children’s department at Harrods.”

“Rabbits in space.” Adam made a face and coughed in disbelief. Then the cough morphed into a low chuckle, and Thomas noticed that he was smiling again.He had soft creases in the corners of his eyes. His nose was crooked; Thomas had read somewhere he had surgery to get it fixed but he supposed that was only hearsay because Adam’s nose was still lovingly… well, he wouldn’t say it was wonky, but it was prominent just like his ears. Still: he was a sight to behold. 

Thomas felt himself flush as he stared at Adam a bit longer. 

“Should rabbits even be in space?” said Adam. “What the fuck is that even all about.”

Thomas shrugged. He had asked Bea the same question but in much nicer words. “Is it for a son or a daughter? Perhaps I can help you narrow down your choices?” he offered kindly.

He knew he was prying, but he couldn’t resist asking. Adam Sackler was elusive. Because yes there were rumours circulating about his shady past, but none of them had been proven true. 

“Neither. I don’t have kids. It’s for my niece. It’s her fourth birthday on Friday and I’m flying back home to New York tomorrow and I know fuck all what a four year old likes. All kids look the same to me. They’re small humans. Fuck, I should just write her a check or something.”

“While I’m certain your niece might appreciate that, putting a little more thought into your present wouldn’t hurt, don’t you think?” Thomas said, widening his eyes at Adam in disbelief. “Toys are more than just playthings, you know, and while they should be fun, they should also be age-appropriate, stimulating, and safe. Not a lot of people know this but toys are important to the mental, physical, and emotional development of children.”

Adam tilted his head to the side and smiled at him, holding the action longer until Thomas found himself smiling too in spite of himself and flushing all the more.

“What are you, some sort of shrink for kids? Is this some kind of hard sell?”

Thomas felt his hackles rise. “I’m simply passionate about toys, that’s all,” he huffed. “People often forget their value and importance as they get older. As if they themselves have forgotten they were once children.”

Adam looked at him. He looked at him for a long time and then held out his hand. Thomas stared at it as if it were about to jump at him and eat his face but then Adam thrust it forward like a mighty thing and Thomas had no choice but to take it. 

“Adam,” Adam said, introducing himself.

“Right,” Thomas shook his hand, which was big and warm and dry, rough in places. It was a solid handshake, the kind you give at a business meeting, but Adam was still looking at him with amusement in his eyes that Thomas was used to from his time working in customer service, so his cheeks didn’t flame quite as much. “Thomas,” he said, because he did not have his named pinned to his lapel, not anymore. He was the only person in the shop—he ran front and back of the house operations— and his last name could be seen on the shopfront in big bold letters against a backdrop of red tartan. People knew where to go when they needed toys in Windermere: they would tell you to simply take a left turn after the pub and walk north until you see the sign that read _McGregor’s_. It was hard to miss. Thomas ran his business across a bookshop called _The Shop Around The Corner_. He hung flowers outside his window and every morning without fail after he opened shop, he would water and sing to them.

“Thomas _McGregor_?” Adam ventured, raising his eyebrows. “Is that your name outside?”

Thomas nodded. “Yes. The one and only,” he said, planting his hands on his hips in a rather awkward pose. He was not accustomed to being the center of attention and Adam had eyes that were keen and penetrating, traveling the entire length of his body. Thomas read the occasional Heyer novel when the nights were long and yawning and understood perfectly, in that moment, why the eyes were called the windows to the soul. He felt as if he were being undressed; he had to suppress a shiver.

“Nice to meet you,” Adam grinned. Thomas found it ironic that Adam was saying this, when months before he stood in the street in a throng of people, waiting for his bloody autograph. It had been a terrible night, he recalled. His entire body ached with the beginning of a fever as rain drenched him to the toe like a drowned duck. He had to call in sick the next day. He did not receive his _employee of the month_ plaque as a result. A tragedy and a loss. 

“Pleasure,” Thomas said, clipped, forcing a smile. “Would you like me to leave you to your browsing or would you like a tour of the shop?”

Sometimes, Thomas forgot he no longer worked at Harrods where there was an entire floor dedicated to toys of all shapes and sizes and people needed assistance in case they were overwhelmed by so many choices. His little shop was only a fraction of the size of his beloved department store that he could cross it in six short strides. Seven if he stood pigeon-toed. 

“Huh. You wanna give me a tour?” Adam said, sounding skeptical. He glanced around the shop, but to Thomas’ surprise, turned back to him and said, “Sure, why the fuck not. Maybe I’ll even end up buying something.”

Thomas, giddy with the promise of making a sale, ushered him to the shelf with the latest merchandise. It was a customer draw: people liked anything that was shiny and new because they had such short attention spans. Two shiny pieces of metal would charm them. Thomas looked to Adam for validation but Adam just shrugged, and went on to peer into the adjacent shelf where a row of tin soldiers stood to attention. He flicked two fingers at the one nearest to him so it wobbled dangerously on its tin feet before springing back upright. 

It was clear he was losing interest. Thomas could tell from his expression and gait. “Is there anything else?” Adam asked, touching things at random: the felt dolls, the stuffed rabbits Bea scrunched her nose at, the apple-red toy truck poised above a stack of children’s books. Thomas would never call his cataloguing system perfect and he had yet to invest in a barcode scanner.

“I have a new shipment of toys that have just arrived last night,” he said, biting his lip uncertainty. “They’re in the back, but I could unpack the boxes for you if you don’t find anything here to your liking.”

Adam swept his hand out in a magnanimous gesture. “Then by all means.”

Thomas hesitated. He had never shown anyone the backroom before because most people were content with whatever merchandise was available on the shelves. He told himself it was for the good of the shop. There were bills to pay this month, and he would not let Adam leave without a toy tucked under his arm and his wallet less hefty. 

He showed Adam to the back, sweeping aside the gauzy curtains that fringed the door. Adam followed behind him, walking too close for comfort, but Thomas chalked it up to there being so little room and thought nothing of it. Back there, it was poorly lit and a bit musty like an old closet; the shop used to be a bakery so you could still smell yeast and flour on the walls. He held his breath when he felt a sneeze coming, then twitched his nose and coughed into his sleeve.

Thomas had tried his best keeping the backroom neat and tidy, making sure things were tucked in their respective hiding places. There was a cot folded in a corner for afternoon naps, and a writing desk where he did inventory and tallied up the numbers, chewing on the nub of his pencil when the accounting didn’t quite add up. A small window looked out into the carpark behind the shop, which Thomas shared with a number of other businesses lining the street. 

The shipment of new toys was on the topmost shelf, just out of reach. Thomas stood on his toes, tongue pressed to the corner of his lips, and attempted to pull it out from its resting place. His fingers brushed the edges of the box, and he was about to successfully haul it down when he felt Adam’s breath on his neck, a passing glance that made the hair there curl and shiver. He turned, slowly, and sure enough there he was, a mere centimeter away,looking at Thomas with brown eyes full of intent.

Thomas had seen him onstage romance cantankerous redheads and that was the same look he was wearing now: his eyelashes were long and shadowed his eyes, and he looked to Thomas like he was about to do something stupid and dangerous.

“Uh,” said Thomas, feeling a bit woozy from the proximity. It was not everyday he was pressed against toy shelves by handsome, American men who smelled almost as good as they looked.

“You’re really fucking cute,” Adam said. The points of their shoes were touching. It was as if Adam were waiting for permission to bridge the distance, although his arm had already braced itself against the shelf behind Thomas. There was a patch of sweat in the armpit of his shirt and his lips were parted. Thomas tended to notice small, seemingly insignificant details whenever he was nervous. Like Adam’s shirt with the loose neck and the moles flecking his face. 

Adam swallowed, and Thomas found himself mirroring the action. “Thank you,” Thomas said, in response to the compliment. “No one’s ever— _thank you_ ,” he said, swallowing again. But what he meant to say was: _no one’s ever come into my shop and said that to my face before, certainly not men who look like you. You’re gorgeous Adam Sackler, built like a god, and that performance in Autumn Is A Second Springdeserved more than two stars on The Guardian._

_“_ You know, I’ve been in the countryside for a whole fucking week and at this point I’m just fucking sick of it. I’m sick of the cows and the mosquitoes and the birdie birds and walking into this store was just like a breath of fresh air, you know? I saw you wearing your little apron and drinking your tea and I thought, _fuck._ Fuck.”

This was not happening, Thomas thought, feeling faint. This was all a fever dream.

“ _Fuck_ ,” said Adam emphatically, and Thomas knew what he meant. He shared the sentiment. It felt as if he were in a movie where everything had meaning and things moved in slow motion.Adam seemed to abandon the last vestige of his self control and slipped his knee between Thomas’ legs. He had a mouth, and he opened it and breathed and made as if to kiss Thomas.

“Wait,” Thomas said, cupping a hand over Adam’s lips. Adam blinked at him owlishly. His beard was a gentle rasp against Thomas’ palm. “The thing is,” Thomas said, “I know who you are, Mr Sackler. You’re that actor. And with you I’m in real danger. It seems like a perfect situation, but my relatively inexperienced heart would I fear not recover if you walked out of my shop after demolishing what’s left of my dignity.”

Adam blinked again. Thomas loosened his hold, and Adam took his hand, turning it over palm-up before kissing it. He had to be charming too, didn’t he, apart from being handsome. “Jesus, you English,” Adam huffed, rolling his eyes. “Then I won’t break your goddamn heart. I’ll demolish your tight little dignity that’s for fucking sure but I won’t be an asshole. I’m not an asshole. I know what the tabloids say about me, but that’s just gossip, absolute garbage.”

And it seemed like an infallible oath but Thomas still had misgivings. For one, things like this didn’t happen to eccentric shop owners in the countryside, and for another, this was Adam Sackler, star of every vivid wet dream Thomas pretended he wasn’t having anymore. What if Adam was having him on? What if this were simply a cruel joke?

“Oh, _fuck it,_ ” Thomas said and snuck his arms around Adam’s shoulders to pull him close. Adam’s arms came around him soon after, and he walked Thomas even further backwards till he was flush against the shelves, kissing him with a fierce hunger that made Thomas feel wanted. First kisses were supposed to be awkward and uncomfortable but this was, to Thomas’ surprise, the exact opposite: they fell into it with practiced rhythm, Adam’s mouth moving with sure confidence as his tongue slid across Thomas’ lips, seeking entrance Thomas was all too willing to give for someone who had been so initially disinclined.

They kissed, and they kissed, panting and frantic, Adam’s hands cradling Thomas’ face and then sliding down to grip his waist. Then those hands were tugging Thomas’ belt free, pulling on his zipper and Thomas had to clutch the shelves for balance as Adam’s palm closed around his erection and started to knead him through the ridiculously expensive silk of his boxers which he bought at Harrods using his employee discount. 

“Oh, dear god,” he muttered, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, Adam was grinning at him, and it only took a moment before he was kissing Thomas again. He kissed like Thomas was sugar to a dying man, with the ferocity of a freight train going off the rails. For Thomas, who lived his life in quiet isolation and sold toys that no one wanted, this was rather overwhelming, like plunging off a cliff without a parachute and not knowing where you’ll land. 

“I don’t normally accost cute shop owners like this,” Adam said apologetically, when they finally parted to breathe, muggy-eyed and pressed chest to chest. “Believe me,I may look like it because I’m an American but I’m not some fucking pervert. I just _need_ to fuck you. I’m gonna regret it for the rest of my life otherwise. This doesn’t happen to very often, where I meet someone for the first time and my dick gets so fucking hard for them.”

“Right,” Thomas said, for the second time that day. Sounded like the man had a problem, but he was still oddly flattered. 

Thomas’ cheeks were pink and he could feel how warm they were even though Adam’s breath steaming his face was warm enough. It still surprised him how much Adam wanted him when they’d only just met. Did he go around Windermere fucking anyone who’d let him? Thomas tried not to think about it; best not to sabotage a once in a lifetime opportunity with his musings. “All right,” he agreed, mumbling, and that was apparently all the prompting Adam needed because a second later Thomas found himself bent over the desk, his palms flat against the polished wood, his trousers puddled around his ankles. He was still wearing his boxers thankfully, but this relief was short-lived as Adam quickly yanked them down to his knees, exposing his arse to the air.

“Jesus, even your ass is cute and pretty,” Adam hissed. Thomas felt his face burn, and he curled his fingers into fists to keep himself from making embarrassed noises. Adam gave his arse a gentle open-palmed smack, but it still felt loud in the stillness of the room where the only noise was the hum of the radiator and the desk’s rickety fourth leg creaking. Was Thomas being easy, allowing Adam, a complete stranger, to see him in such a state? Thomas was not in the habit of showing anyone his arse. He liked sex in the dark, and touching himself down there embarrassed him to no end though he did it quite often when he was alone and with the aid of toys. 

Adam’s hand came down again, and this time Thomas caught himself gasping at the sting. It didn’t hurt but it burned pleasantly and sent blood rushing south. Thomas peered over his shoulder in time to see Adam spit into his hand. His face was tense with concentration. Adam rubbed a slick thumb over Thomas’ perineum, using the fingers of his other hand to keep Thomas’ arse open. With his hole so exposed, Thomas began to shudder, a low treble from his spine all the way down to his toes. His cock ached terribly, and Adam hadn’t even done anything besides tickle his rim in maddening swipes. Thomas wanted, and the wanting was like a sickness. 

“Please!” he whimpered when Adam circled his hole with his thumb for the sixth time, “Stop teasing!”

“Someone’s over-eager,” Adam chuckled, but just as promised, he wasn’t unkind, and knelt on the floor behind Thomas to—

“ _Oh my god_ ,” said Thomas when he felt Adam’s hot tongue trace his rim. “ _Oh my god._ ” 

His cock pushed out drops of precome as Adam began his steady assault on Thomas’ hole. Adam’s tongue probed and licked and tickled Thomas open, wet and slow and unhurried. He kept his big hands on the globes of Thomas’ arse so Thomas was always open to him, unhidden, unable to squirm away even if he tried. But Thomas didn’t try—he stayed put, because he enjoyed being at Adam’s mercy, his hole clenching and unclenching each time Adam pressed his tongue inside. 

Thomas bit his lip when he felt slobber start to trickle down the inside of his thigh. He was so wet; his hole felt tender and open and _sloppy_ which was never the case when he played with himself with his myriad of toys. He had them in varying sizes, just to tickle the itch, but he was always careful not to make a mess, to lay out towels strategically on the bed, and keep his use of lubricant minimal.

Adam, it seemed, was a man on a mission: he lapped Thomas up like a feast and barely paused for anything; he made pleased noises at the back of his throat; he nipped on the crease of Thomas’ inner thigh, making Thomas hiss and buck his hips. 

Thomas turned murky eyes on Adam to witness him uncapping a tube of lube he conjured seemingly out of nowhere. Adam smirked when he met Thomas’ half-lidded gaze, his lips shining with spit, his teeth sharp and white in the dim light of the room. 

“Just relax, baby, and let me in,” he murmured like a complete and utter louche.

The first finger had Thomas tensing up, but as soon as Adam leaned over to press a kiss to his’ neck, Thomas relaxed and managed to breathe again, adjusting to the intrusion in his hole. The second finger already made him feel full and stretched to his limit that the third one had him panting noiselessly and scrabbling for purchase on the desk.

Adam was relentless: viciously jabbing his prostate until Thomas keened and shook and drooled precome from the tip of his cock. His hand was a hot brand against Thomas’ hip, keeping him in place so Adam could finger him into a frenzy. Thomas felt like a man of ill repute, being fingered in the backroom like a dirty secret, curbing his cries against the sleeve of his shirt.

It felt wonderful, his cock an untouched ache between his legs steadily leaking precome, his hole stretched impossibly around three of Adam’s big fingers. It was almost too much. Adam’s hand left his hip to smack him on the arse once more— the motion burying his fingers deeper and pressing them tight against that tender little spot inside Thomas that made him see stars.

All too soon Adam pulled them out, one by one, making Thomas’ sorry little hole miss the friction and the stretch. A fresh trickle of lube slicked his arse cheeks a second later, dripping thickly down his thigh, and then Adam was back again with two of his fingers, prepping Thomas for his cock. This time, he focused on teasing Thomas open rather than playing with his prostate, which made Thomas whine and wriggle in protest. Adam was not having it, however, and endeavoured to keep his touches efficient and purposeful.

“I’m clean,” Adam told Thomas, teeth grazing Thomas’ earlobe in a near-kiss, fingers snug up Thomas’ arse, circling, circling, inches shy from Thomas’ prostate. “You gonna let me fuck you raw, hm? Wanna come inside you, fill you up real good till you’re wet and overflowing with my—”

“Just do it!” Thomas snapped with a frustrated noise. “Enough wit the jabber! _Please_.” He rolled his eyes and bumped his arse against Adam’s questing fingers. He didn’t want to think about anything except getting Adam’s cock inside him before he exploded. He heard a faint rustle behind him: Adam fumbling with his belt and most likely taking out his cock. 

Thomas’ face reddened. He didn’t want to peek because that would most likely terrify him into remembering where he was (in the backroom of his toyshop, about to get buggered just after lunchtime) and the possible consequences of his actions (embarrassment, self-consciousness, a venereal disease). 

Adam’s hand was back at his hip but this time Thomas could feel his thumbs stroking concentric circles across his skin in attempt to prepare him for the inevitable. Adam bobbed his cock against the globes of Thomas arse so Thomas had a rough estimate of his size and girth—the man was massive, and it was madness to think Thomas could take all of him— and then Adam was resting the tip of his cock lightly against Thomas’ hole before thrusting upward after a deep, fortifying breath.

Thomas felt his knees tremble and give away. If it hadn’t been for Adam holding him up by the hip, he would have collapsed from how big his cock felt inside him. There was simply so much cock unaccounted for that it was frankly quite ridiculous, stretching Thomas wide near his breaking point until he had to stand on his toes. Thomas couldn’t breathe for a moment, his eyes watering with unshed tears, his lips parting soundlessly as his hole throbbed and clenched around Adam’s magnificent dick. 

“Thomas,” Adam said, and Thomas couldn’t even speak anymore because it was too much. He was totally open now. There was no more resistance. He pressed his hands flat to the desk and simply melted to let Adam take from him whatever he wanted, which was his ass and his pleasure and his orgasm. Then Adam pressed that last half inch inside him, rubbing hot and tight circles against Thomas’ prostate, and that was the beginning and the end of it: the long fall down. Thomas became an incoherent whimpering mess, rolling his hips to chase the friction and the stretch.

“Please,” he whined. “Please, please, please.”

“You gonna be good for me?” Adam asked, shoving inside and making the desk creak on its rickety legs. “Gonna take my dick like a good English boy?”

“ _What_ ,” said Thomas, and then whined when Adam pressed in once more, burying himself to the hilt. His balls slapped against the back of Thomas’ thighs with each successive thrust, and Thomas could only moan as Adam continued to rail him, belt buckle clinking in time with the slap of their bodies. 

Adam couldn’t stop talking, hoarse and incoherent, praising Thomas’ arse and his hole which he said was at its prettiest state taking Adam’s dick.

Thomas shuddered around the shape of it, so thick and hot and snug inside him, and when Adam pushed in deeper, he heard himself begging, asking for more, so much more, desperate for anything and everything, just like this—

“I’ve got you,” Adam whispered. “Shh, I’ve got you, baby. Gonna make you feel good. Gonna fuck you so good. Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. Tiny ass so tight and perfect, bouncing on my dick. You like that big dick? Huh?”

_Oh my god,_ Thomas thought. _I’m in a porno._ But what he said instead was, “Yes, yes, I love that big dick! Please, fuck me! Harder, I need it, please, please.” 

Adam chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Gonna give it to you harder than anyone ever has,” he said, voice low and throaty, sending tiny crackles of electricity dancing up Thomas’ spine. “When I’m through with you, you wouldn’t be able to sit for days. You’re gonna drip come from this sweet little ass of yours and there’s gonna be so much of it you’ll be so fucking wet, you’re gonna be a total fucking mess.” 

Thomas whimpered. His eyelashes fluttered. There was sweat on them, delicate and stinging. He bit his lip. “I want it,” he said, and realized he’d said that out loud, delirious.

But Adam heard him loud and clear, hips stuttering to a stop. “Yeah?” he grunted, shunting his hips forward, rubbing a lazy rhythm against Thomas’ prostate. “Is that right? Huh,” he said and then thrust again. 

Thomas gasped when he felt Adam’s hand on top of his own, fingers firmly pinning Thomas’ palm to the desk while Adam’s other hand remained curled around Thomas’ hip. It meant Thomas was trapped underneath Adam completely with no means of escape, bent over the desk and utterly helpless to Adam’s fevered fucking. He writhed and squirmed and cried and shook as Adam gave it to him, hard, knocking the contents of the table askew including a lamp that almost tipped over to the floor.

Adam didn’t touch Thomas’ dick, but he didn’t have to because Thomas came after a particularly hard thrust, with Adam slamming into him, vicious. His whole body shaking, come splattering the desk and the floor in long pearly jets and that big cock pummeling him as if he were simply a hole that was made to be used for Adam’s pleasure.

Adam kept fucking him through it, and Thomas shuddered and kept spasming around his dick, until Adam sank home one last time and held himself enveloped tight and quivering inside him, his eyes clenching shut as he came with a choked off cry.

He filled Thomas up with a hot rush of come that had Thomas wrinkling his nose in distaste. It was an odd sensation, both welcome and unwelcome and it was only until Adam had deemed him full enough that he pulled out with a soft gasp. Come dribbled out of Thomas’ hole; he felt it slide down his perineum, a wet sloppy mess mixed with lube. His toes curled; he whined when Adam pressed a finger back in to plug up his come. 

The bell outside tinkled in greeting, announcing the arrival of a new customer, and Thomas tensed, heart beating fast like a trapped bird until Adam squeezed his hip. “Don’t even think about it,” he called over his shoulder, loud enough for his voice to carry to the front of the shop. “Leave, just leave. We’re closed. Come back again in an hour.”

“All right,” came the confused but jovial reply, and the bell sounded once more to signal their departure.

Adam smiled down at Thomas before pressing his nose to the fold of his neck where the skin was damp with sweat. He smelled nice, up close, like clean sweat and sex. Thomas moaned, closed his eyes. Because he was utterly blissed out, he felt strangely sleepy though it was only midday.

“You and your Notting Hill fantasies,” Adam said, with an affectionate chuckle. He wove their hands together on the desk, their wedding bands clinking. “Though I don’t think Colin Firth would walk into a random shop in the middle of nowhere and start fucking the next cute thing he sees.”

“First off,” Thomas said, and huffed, cheeks red. “It’s Hugh Grant. Second of all,Colin Firth is an absolute gentleman.”

“Yeah, sure,” Adam said dismissively. “Have you met him?”

“No, but he has the bearing of one,” Thomas said, annoyed now. “You can tell he’s a gentleman.”

Adam just laughed. He shook his head and zipped up his trousers, then started on the arduous task of cleaning up. He grabbed a handful of wipes—the kind Thomas kept in the backroom for occasions like this—and gently wiped up any traces of come and lube from Thomas’ arse. It used to embarrass Thomas, and it still did from time to time, but unlike before Thomas didn’t mind the errant finger tracing his rim. “Did I get everything?” Adam grinned, as if his palm wasn’t splayed across Thomas’ left arsecheek while he dabbed the inside of Thomas’ thighs with unscented wipes intended for baby poo.

Thomas rolled his eyes, but he let Adam finish this task before waving him away and pulling up his underwear and trousers. His knees felt like jelly. That was often the case when Adam fucked him: the man was a machine and Thomas couldn’t help but ride him sometimes like a coin-operated horse. Thomas could already tell he was going to be sore all week. He hadn’t gotten fucked like that since Sunday after they’d come home from a trip to London where Thomas sold all his tomatoes at a Farmer’s Market in Gloucester. The tomatoes had been a hit, the result of a cross-germination between a Brandywine and San Marzano. Riding his celebratory high put Thomas in the mood for other things too and so he had ended up riding Adam not too long after, there on the crumbling Yorkshire steps of his garden where any passerby might glimpse them if they cared enough to peer over the garden wall. 

The bell at the door tinkled again. Another customer. Thomas sighed. 

Adam waggled his eyebrows. “Well,” he said, hands on his hips. “That’s my cue to make myself scarce. My work here is done, and I don’t wanna keep you from the good people of Windermere.” He shot Thomas an irreverent look that made Thomas roll his eyes. “I’ll see you at home.” Adam pressed a kiss to Thomas’ cheek, cupping the back of his neck before bestowing another kiss on his forehead, lips lingering, warm and tender. 

“Love you,” Thomas mumbled, sighing into it, clutching the sides of Adam’s shirt before letting go reluctantly. 

Adam squeezed his arse, his grin infectious. Thomas yelped. 

“I know,” Adam said, and then turned to leave but not before righting the lamp on the desk and pushing Thomas’ hair back into place. Thomas felt a sudden rush of affection for him, but tamped it down and schooled his features as soon as he stepped out of the backroom, parting the curtains to make his presence known. He had a shop to run after all, and it would not do for customers to see him act unprofessional. 


End file.
